


Sink or Paddle

by Elenothar



Category: NCIS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Animal Shifters, Early Series, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23344054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: These days distressingly many of Tony DiNozzo’s firsts revolve around his boss.
Relationships: Anthony DiNozzo/Jethro Gibbs
Comments: 34
Kudos: 332





	Sink or Paddle

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask me why my muse thought the NCIS fandom needs more animal shifter fic, but here it is. There're more stories to be told in this verse, but I figured better actually finish a fic before getting ahead of myself.

*

Exhibit A:

When Tony sees Gibbs’ shifted form for the first time, all he can think is –

_Oh. That makes sense._

So does, on second thought, the fact that he has only known the man for a couple of months. Shifting is seen as private enough to be only done in front of family and close friends, _usually_. Even talking about someone’s shifted form in public is seen as a serious faux pas. Tony doesn’t know why he thought Gibbs would care. The man never so much resembles a grumpy bulldozer as when they’re in the middle of a long, exhausting case and he has no trouble barrelling right through carefully maintained precedents like they’re so much ballast.

The perp they’re chasing has a head start on them – and apparently does some kind of track running, _jesus_ – and even Tony’s not inconsiderable stamina is failing to catch up to him. A couple more corners and they’ll have lost him, which is going to mean an afternoon of tense silence punctuated by snarls in the bullpen. A happenstance Tony would rather avoid (currently being the most likely target of his boss’ ire), so he puts on another little burst of speed, for all the good it’ll do him.

Gibbs is a few steps behind, but when a large silver shape on four paws suddenly overtakes him, Tony doesn’t doubt for a second that it’s him. For one thing, the odds of another shifter being in the vicinity and inclined to chase their perp are astronomical. For another, the silver matches Gibbs almost exactly – and so does the form.

Gibbs was never going to be anything other than a predator, but he’s also loyal as hell and, despite his outward gruffness, shows a proclivity to pack-bond as if it’s going out of style, if his relationships with Ducky, Abby, Tom Morrow and even Tony are any indication. Not to mention all the ex-wives.

A wolf makes _perfect_ sense.

Tony is still running, but he slows his pace a little in favour of watching the oversized wolf gain on the perp with easy, loping strides. Tony’s eyebrows shoot up as Gibbs takes the perp down, not in his wolf form but by shifting back to human mid-stride, somehow not stumbling and smoothly transferring his momentum to two feet and into a rugby tackle that would’ve made Todd Clever proud. It takes a hell of a lot of practice and coordination to be able to do that so smoothly, Tony knows from experience, and his own shifted form is much less bulky than Gibbs’.

By the time Tony catches up to them, Gibbs has already cuffed the perp and is dragging him upright. The guy isn’t putting up much of a resistance, face pale and shocky.

Gibbs catches his eye. “Problem, DiNozzo?”

“Not me, boss!” Tony responds automatically, but his brain to mouth filter has never been all that developed, so he adds, “You’re the one who just shifted in front of me, the perp, and half a street of DC natives.”

Gibbs favours him with a brief but expressive glare. “Perp would’ve gotten away otherwise,” he says, as if that explains everything.

Given Gibbs’ general attitude to life (and criminals), it kind of does. Centuries of tradition and unspoken rules crumple in the face of Leroy Jethro Gibbs on a mission.

At least Tony knows better than to say _that_ out loud.

He silently debates whether he should tell Gibbs that he won’t breathe a word of his form to anyone, but in the end decides against it. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t still be on Gibbs’ team if the man didn’t trust him, and Gibbs doesn’t seem like he cares much either way.

Gibbs gives him an approving nod. Tony falls into step behind him, feeling embarrassingly like – if he were in his other form right now – he’d be wagging his tail like there’s no tomorrow.

Exhibit B:

Tony is in his sixth month of working for Gibbs when he lands himself in the hospital, courtesy of a mid-sized concussion (not his record but not the worst year he’s had in law enforcement either). This is largely due, he feels, to Gibbs turning out to be protective of his team in a way none of Tony’s previous bosses have been. It’s not that Agent “Justice Junkie” Gibbs doesn’t take risks if he feels they’re warranted, but so far he’s been good at mitigating any fallout. Still, Tony expects Gibbs to drop him at the hospital and wash his hands off his employee until he’s fit to work again.

 _Instead_ he gets a gruffly worried mama bear (or rather mama wolf, not that Tony is fool enough to express that thought, nosiree), who in turn bullies the hospital staff into releasing Tony into his care and then Tony into actually staying with him.

That, Tony wouldn’t have minded so much – Gibbs is surprisingly good company outside of work, if one isn’t too invested in actually, you know, _talking_ and Tony likes his house. It’s got a dependable feel to it, warm and solid and lived-in. Stoic.

What he does mind is Gibbs hustling him in the direction of the guest room Tony previously stayed in immediately upon entry, growling something about ‘bed’ and ‘rest’.

Given that the world tilts only a little bit every time he moves his head and he’s already puked out everything he’s eaten in the last couple of days, Tony feels this is a bit of an overreaction.

“I’m fine, boss,” he mumbles, ignoring the way the staircase swoops all around him and that he’s holding on to Gibbs’ shoulder with something resembling a death grip.

 _Rigor mortis, my boy_ , an imaginary Ducky whispers in his mind.

All right, so ‘fine’ might be stretching the truth a little bit, but he doesn’t need to be put to bed like an errant nine-year-old.

“Don’t even start with me, DiNozzo,” Gibbs growls, and even in his slightly impaired state _that_ tone of voice so close to his ear shivers through him. “Doctors said you need rest. I’m gonna make sure you do.”

Only Gibbs could make resting in bed sound like a threat. Tony considers arguing some more, but he’s already familiar with this particular set of Gibbs’ eyebrows – there’s no way he’s going to come out on top and he _is_ exhausted. They’d been up all night chasing the lead that led to Tony getting hit over the head with a plank before Gibbs managed to subdue the errant Petty Officer. Who, incidentally, would’ve fared much better if he hadn’t decided to add ‘assault of a federal agent’ to his rap sheet.

Gibbs seems to take his silence as assent and gets Tony out of his clothes, into a pair of his own worn sweatpants and into bed with military efficiency.

“Call me if you need anything,” he directs, and vanishes out the door.

Like hell. Tony shifts around on the bed mutinously, suddenly far too aware of all the little aches and pains that come with being bonked over the head and taking a fall onto annoyingly solid concrete. His throat is dry.

A quick check of the nightstand reveals no glass of water. No reason Gibbs should’ve thought of it really. Tony lays still and listens out for a few seconds before determining that Gibbs is likely in the basement and swinging his legs off the bed.

He makes it upright with only minimal fuss, imagining it’s a bit like being on a boat, except that if he falls overboard he’s gonna hit unforgiving hardwood floor instead of squishy water.

The stair creaks as he shuffles downstairs and he winces with every step, expecting Gibbs to come charging up from the basement any second now.

Ears peeled, Tony makes it to the sink, finding a glass that may or may not have been used draining next to it and deciding that potential Gibbs cooties are probably quite safe compared to the concussion.

“DiNozzo!”

Tony winces. How had Gibbs managed to get up out of the basement without him noticing?

He risks a peek, only to find Gibbs glaring at him pointedly. “What are you doing up.”

One of these days Tony really needs to figure out Gibbs’ knack for making even a question sound like a statement. A very pointy statement. Full of knives. Spears?

“I was thirsty,” Tony replies, holding the glass up as evidence and a shield. Not that it does much to dim Gibbs’ glare.

“What did I tell you about calling me?” Gibbs growls.

“It’s just a glass of water, boss – ” Tony starts, then cuts off with a surprised _eep_ when Gibbs is suddenly standing right in front of him, completely ignoring Tony’s personal space as usual.

He doesn’t say anything else, just takes the glass from Tony, fills it with water, and then starts prodding Tony back towards the stairs.

Tony’s sound of protest might’ve been more impactful if he hadn’t been swaying ever so slightly on his feet. Then again, it’s Gibbs, so probably not.

He ends up back in the bed, blinking slightly in the half light of the bedroom. Gibbs sets the glass of water down on the bedside table and stands for a moment, eyes hooded.

Tony resists the urge to squirm under the intense scrutiny. He has just opened his mouth to say something inane to lighten the atmosphere, when Gibbs says, “If you can’t stay put, I’m just going to have to make you.”

Tony’s eyes widen, but before he can do anything else, Gibbs has changed. The wolf hops onto the bed, and with no apparent hesitation sprawls across Tony’s legs and lower torso.

Gibbs the wolf isn’t any lighter than Gibbs the man, which means Tony is well and truly trapped in the bed. Actually, he suspects that Gibbs is keeping some of his weight off Tony on purpose, because otherwise his limbs would probably already have started protesting.

Gibbs turns his big head towards Tony and gives him what can only be described as a smug look, then rests it on his paws and closes his eyes.

His silver fur shines ever so slightly in the dimness of the bedroom. It’s kinda pretty, and Tony’s hand twitches with the effort of not reaching out to stroke it. Gibbs in human shape isn’t exactly touch-feely. Sure, he has no trouble whacking people on the back of the head, doling out shoulder pats or the occasional hug, and, okay, so the man has _no_ concept of personal space, but he’s still not… cuddly. Except for how he’s now sprawling across Tony, quite voluntarily, too, and if those aren’t mixed signals Tony doesn’t know what is.

Apparently fed up with Tony’s thoughts loudly chasing in a circle, Gibbs huffs out a wolfish sigh, briefly baring sharp teeth, before turning his usual stare on Tony. For all that he’s currently big and furry, Gibbs’ eyes are exactly the same shady of piercing, frosty blue in this form, immediately recognisable to anyone who has spent any time at all with the man. Tony considers himself something of an expert in physical beauty and on a scale of 1 (forgettable) to 10 (unforgettable), Gibbs’ eyes score a solid eleven.

Tony has not spent much time with other shifters for decades. It’s true that shifters tend to be drawn to each other when they do meet – which certainly explains Tony’s eagerness to drop his life in Baltimore in favour of coming to work for Gibbs, and the fact that he isn’t yet feeling any stirrings of restlessness in the job – but relatively speaking, they’re a small enough percentage of the population that unless one goes looking, it’s easy to go years without meeting a shifter in person.

Tony hadn’t gone looking.

Gibbs huffs at him again, pointedly nudging with his nose, and Tony finally lays a hand on his fur. It’s soft under his fingers, smells clean and faintly like Gibbs does normally – fresh wood and sawdust, with a hint of coffee. Apparently satisfied, Gibbs lays down his head and closes his eyes again. He’s clearly there for the long haul.

When Tony eventually falls asleep despite the throbbing in his head, one of his hands rests tangled in Gibbs’ silver scruff and one on the wolf’s back.

By the time he wakes in the morning, the heavy weight is gone from his legs, but Tony still feels warm.

The thought is fleeting but stays in the back of his head for a while: maybe _this_ is what having a pack feels like.

Exhibit C:

They all have cases that hit them harder than others. For Blackadder it’s anything involving car accidents. One day, Kate will always go quiet and tight at anything involving women being trodden all over by men who should know better and McGee all but shuts down whenever their victim is a self (or other)-proclaimed geek. Tony himself knows he worries everyone else with his behaviour when a case involves neglected children and Gibbs… Gibbs gets even more Gibbsish whenever children are involved, period.

A kidnapped child they are too late to save, finding only a small body, still and breathless in a dark cellar, pushes every one of the buttons their fearless leader pretends he doesn’t have.

Going to the man’s house after he has finally sent him and Viv home, thundercloud still hovering over his head, might not be the smartest idea Tony has ever had. Yet he can’t bring himself to regret it, either, not when he finds Gibbs standing in his darkened kitchen, cup loose in his hand as if he had run out of motivation halfway to getting coffee (alarming all in itself), something so terrifyingly _bleak_ in his eyes that Tony has to resist the urge to jump forward and tug the man back from an imaginary precipice.

He doesn’t know whether it’s some kind of shifter instinct taking over, or perhaps his own version of Gibbs’ gut, but there’s no conscious thought involved when he shifts, furniture growing around him as he shrinks, and lopes over to Gibbs to lean against the man’s leg. Through the points of contact Tony can feel the way Gibbs stills. In different circumstances Tony would have exulted at finally having caught the annoyingly unflappable man by surprise. Then a hand lands on top of Tony’s head, gentle for all Gibbs’ anger, and after another moment’s hesitation begins to scratch behind his ears.

There’s no dog in existence who doesn’t like their ears scratched, and Tony in dog-form is no exception. He pants happily, tail wagging, leaning into the touch.

Tony is a mutt. He knows he’s a mutt because the closest he’s ever come to identifying his dog breed is when Steve, his best friend in college (and fellow frat brother), squinted at him and said, “You look like a cross between a Greyhound and a Labrador. A labrahound!” Needless to say, he’d been drunk at the time, but it had stuck with Tony.

Gibbs, true to form, doesn’t seem to care about Tony’s dubious origins.

“Only you, DiNozzo,” Gibbs sighs, quietly enough that human ears wouldn’t have heard it. “Might as well get comfortable.”

He moves towards the couch, Tony just a step behind, and while Gibbs leans back against the cushion, head falling over the top so he’s looking at the ceiling, Tony hops up onto the couch, draping himself over the other man’s lap much like Gibbs had done for him that one time Tony had been concussed and mildly unruly. But where Gibbs had used his weight to keep Tony from escaping, Tony lets himself go heavy and boneless to anchor Gibbs, to keep him from floating away on a tide of guilt and grief, and maybe even to counter the mental images of the little boy’s peaceful, dead face.

Gibbs sighs again, muscles relaxing some of their tension, and resumes petting Tony’s fur, almost as if it’s an automatic response. Tony is entirely on board with this – he hasn’t had a great day, either, and Gibbs’ fingers are exactly as skilled as he’d imagined in furtively self-conscious moments at work when he caught Gibbs signing to Abby or manipulating a gun with practised ease or headslapping Tony for one smart comment too many.

Time slows. Their breathing syncs.

Finally, Gibbs shifts, first his legs then entirely and Tony aborts a startled bark when he’s suddenly being half smothered by too many pounds of massive silver wolf. In dog-form, the wolf appears even bigger, head easily twice the size of Tony’s, but Tony feels no apprehension. It’s _Gibbs_.

Gibbs nudges Tony’s head in what might’ve been an apology, then pushes him around until they’re both comfortably stretched out on the couch, Gibbs half curled around Tony. Puppy piles are one of the ways shifter packs de-stress and reaffirm their closeness, but Tony hasn’t cuddled with another shifter since his mother died. Had forgotten how soothing it is, to feel someone else’s heat, someone else’s heartbeat so intimately without having to worry about human social mores.

The wolf delivers a pointed poke with his muzzle, yawning widely.

 _Sleep now_.

And Tony does.

He sleeps better than he has in weeks, and waking up to the smell of industrial-strength coffee and Gibbs rattling about in the kitchen is pretty good, too.

Exhibit D:

Gibbs never talks about himself, aside from the occasional baleful reference to his ex-wives, so when a slim folder appears in Tony’s apartment, with a note in Gibbs’ handwriting to destroy it after reading, he takes it seriously even before he knows its contents.

He reads about Shannon and Kelly, Gibbs’ lost family. He reads about Pedro Hernandez, easily filling in the blanks surrounding the man’s death – Gibbs is a wolf shifter, fiercely protective of his pack, his mate and pup. There is no world in which he would not have made certain that their killer would face justice, one way or another.

Tony’s gaze keeps returning to the picture of Kelly, Gibbs’ eyes in that young face, something of his smile, too, and his heart _hurts_. He doesn’t want to imagine what Gibbs must have felt then and probably still feels to this day. So many of the little mysteries surrounding the man make a terrible kind of sense now.

Finally, Tony closes the folder, runs the whole thing through the shredder and then puts flame to the leftover strips.

It’s the single most overwhelming gesture of trust anyone has ever extended to him and he doesn’t expect to _ever_ talk about it with Gibbs.

Yet in this, as in most things, Gibbs apparently lives to confound him because a few weeks later they’re in hour three of a supremely boring (if slightly more scenic than usual) stake-out of a farmhouse belonging to their number one suspect in the smuggling of navy weapons, when Gibbs, gaze on the two horses grazing in a paddock nearby, suddenly volunteers, “Shan was a horse shifter.”

Tony’s gaze jerks towards Gibbs, still sitting quiet and still in the driver’s seat as if he hasn’t just dropped a bombshell.

“Horse and _wolf_?” he asks, a note of incredulity in his voice he can’t seem to eradicate. There’s a certain issue of compatibility there, at least on the surface. Leave it to Gibbs to find one of the rarer types of shifter to marry, anyway – these days most shifters are predators more aligned with human nature. If there ever were larger numbers of prey species shifters, they died out slowly over the centuries.

Gibbs doesn’t take offense, is actually smiling softly.

“Never mattered to her and she didn’t need looking after more than you or I. Ever been kicked by a horse? It’s no picnic.”

“She _kicked_ you?”

Gibbs’ incredulous look is enough to answer that question. “Other horses, DiNozzo. Intuitive creatures.” His expression saddens. “They could always tell, that I have an affinity and that I wanted them to be something they’re not.”

At a loss what else to say, but also wanting to take advantage of Gibbs’ uncharacteristic openness, Tony redirects the conversation slightly. “Have you met many shifters, boss?”

Gibbs grunts, eyes still on the horses. “Fair few in the corps. Work with shifters where possible, better for the team.”

 _No need to familiarise humans with shifter pack dynamics_ , Tony translates mentally. It would take an interesting human indeed to take all that completely in stride – and not feel left out.

“Was Mike Franks?”

“Nah.” That’s definitely a smirk pulling at Gibbs’ lips. “He was a cantankerous bastard though, so we got along just fine.”

Tony is briefly tempted to argue with the implicit assessment that Gibbs, too, is a cantankerous bastard because for all his snapping the man actually has superhuman control over his anger, but since the ‘bastard’ part of it does apply occasionally, Tony lets it go.

Maybe that earns him some good karma, because there’s _finally_ movement outside the farmhouse. Much as he likes a good stake-out when it involves people-watching and poking his nose into other people’s business, sitting in the middle of nowhere Podunk, Virginia, surrounded only by trees and horses, is much less interesting.

Gibbs silently hands him the binoculars, camera at the ready, and they get to work.

The following week, they pull an assignment on Air Force One and their small, unacknowledged pack gains another member.

(The first time Gibbs shifts in front of Kate without a care for her reaction, she turns to Tony, eyes wide and mouth open, and he can only grin.

“Yeah,” he says, “that’s normal for him. You’ll get used to it.”

Kate shakes her head, still silent, but Tony’s estimation of her rises when she voluntarily changes into a tabby cat in front of him and Gibbs both to break into a house via catflap when they hear screaming from inside a few months later.)

Exhibit E:

Strictly speaking, the first time Tony is targeted solely because he’s a shifter isn’t Gibbs’ fault, but Gibbs is at his side throughout the entire mess, so he maintains that it counts.

It’s quite hard to effectively contain a shifter against their will, so Tony isn’t immediately worried when he wakes to a dimly-lit room with no windows, a pounding in his head and a lack of recollection as to how he got there.

He shifts with a quiet groan and catches sight of Gibbs lying on the floor near him, still out cold. There’s blood encrusted in his silver hair, so no mystery there, but Tony’s gaze is drawn to the heavy cuff wrapped around Gibbs’ outstretched wrist.

A cold sliver of fear worms into his stomach and Tony scrambles to check his own wrist, suddenly all too aware of the smothering weight there. He has never seen a shift-suppressor before outside of photos, but he knows this is one. The agony that shocks through him when he tries to change his form only confirms it.

Tony hisses out a pained breath, failing to calm his heartbeat. This is bad. This is _really_ bad. They’d been investigating the pretty gruesome death of a shifter marine, Kate following up leads at the office while he and Gibbs returned to the scene of the crime. The rest is blank, but Tony doesn’t need to remember the kidnapping to make some educated guesses about what happened to them. They’d even noted the abrasions on the marine’s right wrist, where he’d tried to tear the bracelet off.

A closer look at the bracelet reveals it to be one of the fancy fingerprint-activated ones. It shouldn’t even be possible for private citizens to get their hands on one of these. There’s no way to get them off without the correct fingerprint – or a blow-torch, if you’re willing to char your own wrist.

Tony shivers and instinctively moves closer to Gibbs, patting the man’s shoulder and face in an effort to wake him up. Thankfully it doesn’t take anything more drastic for Gibbs’ eyelashes to flutter, revealing a sliver of blue as Gibbs draws in a deeper breath.

Unlike Tony, Gibbs immediately checks his wrist, lines around his mouth deepening as he catches sight of the bracelet. If he tries to shift to confirm it, he gives no indication of the pain. Instead he checks Tony over, not at all subtle about looking for injuries.

“Head?” he asks, voice even gruffer than usual.

Why _do_ the bad guys always go for his head, anyway?

“Fine,” Tony says, and then, in deference to their situation, adds, “No dizziness or double vision.”

Gibbs nods, taking him at his implied word that he’d be action-ready if necessary. “What happened?”

“Wish I could tell you, boss. Last I remember we were on our way back to the crime scene.”

Gibbs nods again, apparently not any better informed. He shifts into a seated position, giving their surroundings a keen once-over before refocusing on Tony. “Anyone make contact yet?”

Tony shakes his head, pushing himself up to try the door. It’s locked, just as expected, but they’d have looked _really_ stupid if they hadn’t at least checked and it turned out to have been open all along. Rule #3 (the first) and all that.

Gibbs, meanwhile, has scooted to the far wall when Tony rejoins him – keeping their backs protected and line of sight to the door clear.

“Only woke up a couple of minutes before you.”

Gibbs grunts his acceptance, but otherwise stays silent. His eyes are trained on the door, blinks a sniper’s sporadic.

Tony, on the other hand, has never been great at silence. “I’m trying very hard not to think about what the major looked like by the time we found him. We’re not exactly at an advantage here, you realise.”

“Hadn’t noticed, DiNozzo,” Gibbs says sourly, and with enough sarcasm to power the entire state of DC. “Need to get more intel before we can plan.”

“And if getting more intel involves one of us getting skewered in the process?”

That finally makes Gibbs turn from the door towards him, eyes intent on Tony’s expression. Tony, for his part, shivers again when a rough hand comes up to cup the side of his face – this time for… different reasons.

“Then I’ll make sure it’s you not me. I’m going to get us out of here, DiNozzo, you understand?”

Tony looks back into those icy blue eyes – couldn’t look away even if he wanted to – and reads absolute certainty in their depths. He doesn’t understand how Gibbs can be so sure, but he’s trained to believe in Gibbs and his body is already relaxing before his mind has caught up.

Gibbs gives him a satisfied nod and sinks back against the wall.

Contrary to some of Tony’s wilder imaginings, Gibbs doesn’t move a single muscle when the door finally bangs open.

He only _glares_.

Tony, who has been on the receiving end of a lot of Gibbs’ glares – including his ‘you’re on thin fucking ice’ glare and the ‘you done fucked up’ glare – finds himself suddenly quite glad that he’s never given cause to be caught in the crosshairs of that worst of all glares: the ‘you’re a scumbag and by the time I’m through with you, you won’t hurt anyone else ever again’ specimen.

The man who came through the doors doesn’t flinch, but Tony does detect a small hesitation before he steps further into the room – despite the shotgun in his hands, which is trained unerringly at Gibbs’ face. He may be a bit discomfited by Gibbs, but the guy’s hands still look steady. More’s the pity. He’s fairly tall and clearly in good shape, though not bulky. Features… unassuming. He wouldn’t stand out in a crowd, with brown hair and eyes, and a pale complexion.

“Still so high and mighty, _shifter_?” The last word is spat out like something foul-tasting, and if there’d been any lingering doubt about the nature of their kidnapper’s grudge against them, that would’ve been enough to dispel it.

Gibbs only keeps on glaring. Tony, too, keeps quiet, taking his cues from Gibbs.

“Answer me!” Angry Murder Guy stalks forward until the muzzle of the shotgun is a bare meter away from Gibbs, who’s still not moving. Tony tenses, keeps still only with an effort of will. If he makes a play for the gun, Gibbs is liable to get shot, but Angry Murder Guy doesn’t exactly look stable. At this rate, he might pull the trigger even if they don’t do anything further to provoke him.

Tony is looking right at Gibbs and still can’t quite follow what happens next. The air blurs, but it’s the agonised growling that registers first, before Tony’s eyes catch up to the fact that Gibbs has just _shifted_. At least he isn’t the only one caught off guard – by the time Angry Murder Guy realises he should’ve pulled the trigger, he’s already on the ground with a 100-pound wolf on his chest, shotgun clattering as it falls from his grasp. Tony winces slightly at the sound of their captor’s head impacting the ground, knocking him out, but doesn’t muster much sympathy beyond that. The guy had it coming.

When Gibbs changes back his wrist is bleeding profusely, shards of the bracelet stuck in his flesh where it had broken during the shift.

Moving entirely on autopilot, Tony helps him wrap a makeshift bandage made from his ripped undershirt tightly around the affected area after extracting the worst of the shards, Gibbs hissing through his teeth at the pain.

Tony sits back on his heels once it’s done, still slightly in shock.

“How the _fuck_ did you do that? The shift-suppressor…”

Gibbs sighs, carefully keeping his right hand and arm still while he takes Tony’s wrist with the other. “Everything can be subverted.” Unconscious Angry Murder Guy’s fingerprint makes the bracelet panel light up green and it falls away. “Just takes… practice.”

Tony takes a deep breath and resists the urge to shift right this moment simply because he _can_.

There are things Gibbs isn’t saying, a darkness lurking behind his words that make Tony doubt that he learned it in controlled circumstances during marine training (besides, it definitely isn’t common knowledge and not even the Corps would be able to keep a lid on information this incendiary). But Gibbs clearly doesn’t want to talk about it and seeing as the man has just rescued Tony from a gruesome death, Tony owes him at least his silence.

He gestures grandly towards the door. “After you. Let’s go reassure Kate that we haven’t kicked the bucket quite yet.” He waits for a beat. “And you need to see Ducky.”

Gibbs audibly grits his teeth in response, but the pain lines around his eyes are pronounced enough (not to mention the fact that the bandage is already soaking through) that he’ll probably accede to letting Ducky treat him, if only to avoid a visit to the hospital.

And if not? Well, Tony will just have to make him. Just like he’ll make sure that Gibbs actually adheres to the inevitable desk duty until his wrist heals enough to recertify on his sig.

… No one ever said his job was _easy_.

Exhibit F:

Tony realises he’s truly, irrevocably in trouble where Gibbs and certain mushy feelings are concerned, when _Kate_ starts teasing him about it. Kate, who usually stays away from his sex life with a ten-foot pole (unless snide comments count), pretending she’s oh-so-proper. Who surprises the hell out of him when she leans over his desk one day, Gibbs just having departed on his second coffee run of the morning, and murmurs, “If you stare at his butt any harder you’re going to strain your eyes, Tony.”

Tony’s head snaps around so quickly the force of the movement starts his desk chair swivelling, almost dumping him on the ground.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, knowing he’s busted but not about to go down without a fight.

Her raised eyebrow is _almost_ as eloquent as Gibbs’.

“Keep telling yourself that, DiNozzo.”

But, miracles of miracles, she lets the matter drop.

He can still feel her eyes on him, usually when he’s drifting off into a daydream and _how_ does she have a sixth sense for something that specific anyway, and Tony is getting really tired of her smirking in his general direction, but she lets it drop.

Which is fortunate, since he doesn’t really have a convincing counterargument. She’s _right_ , depressingly, completely right.

He knows she thinks he should make a move already (shit or get off the pot, so to speak, though Kate probably wouldn’t put it that crudely), but Gibbs is Gibbs and their pack leader to boot. It’s not really his place. Though, sometimes, he catches Gibbs gazing at him, something hooded in his eyes, and Tony wonders if maybe Gibbs is just waiting for him to grow a pair and prove that Tony’s worth his attention. He kinda hopes not, though, seeing as Tony has been chickening out of this for literal years at this point.

The addition of Tim McGee to their team is a welcome distraction and not only because the man is just _too easy_ to wind up. It changes the dynamic of the team (though not so much the pack), having a new probie, and even Gibbs takes a while to settle into it. Then there’s the fact that Tony legitimately can’t work out if McGee is a shifter or not – he doesn’t smell like one, but he also doesn’t _not_ smell like one, leaving Tony’s instincts all confused. He likes a good mystery.

(He can always take a peek into probie’s unredacted file if the not-knowing becomes too much.)

They also pull a series of distracting cases. Gibbs gets all growly about Captain Watson, Kate gets all depressed about the crazy vicar’s victims and Tony pointedly keeps his silence about the daughter of the store owner in Smokey Corners who got dumped by her family for daring to fall in love with the wrong boy. He hasn’t quite figured out what makes McGee tick yet, but the probie has enough on his plate not withering to a bundle of nerves every time Gibbs gets a little more intense than usual (aka every other day) so it’s probably a good thing they haven’t caught a case touching on the personal for him yet.

All of it serves to fuel Tony’s avoidance of the ongoing Gibbs Issue and if Gibbs has started sending him increasingly irritated looks, those are just as likely due to any one of a) no leads in the current case, b) Tony skirting the edge of too obnoxious and c) Tony getting caught playing tetris on his computer because he needs to destress now and then even if Gibbs is on the warpath. Though it may surprise people that Gibbs is actually fairly understanding about the latter – the bossman usually has a good sense of how far he can push his team before they become too stressed/tired/anxious to produce useful work, the whole Hunt For Ari debacle excepted. 

Point is, Tony has so embarrassingly no inkling that Gibbs is about to lose his patience that when he hears the familiar bark of “DiNozzo, with me!” at the end of the day after they finally close the latest case (and none too soon, if Tony had pulled any more protection duty of ungrateful kids he might’ve ended up getting himself fired just to avoid the brats), Tony grabs his gear and follows Gibbs into the elevator without much thought.

When Gibbs flips the switch to halt the elevator between levels, Tony’s ears metaphorically prick, but he still doesn’t realise this is about the Gibbs Issue right up until the point Gibbs has crowded him against the back wall and laid one on him.

As statements of intent go, it’s a doozy.

“Uh, boss?” Tony asks when Gibbs finally disengages, feeling more than a little breathless. His lips are still tingling from the intensity of the kiss and Gibbs’ eyes are roaming over his face in a way that’s thoroughly distracting.

“Got tired of you dancing around the issue,” Gibbs grumbles and there’s something almost a little embarrassed in the way he holds himself.

“You, uh, noticed that?”

Some of the heat goes out of Gibbs’ gaze, replaced by incredulity. “A blind man would’ve noticed, DiNozzo. You’re not exactly subtle.”

Right. Tony can feel heat rising in his cheeks and he clears his throat, despite having already run out of conversational gambits. Gibbs’ body is still bracketing him against the elevator wall, warm and solid, and really really not conducive to rational thought.

Gibbs’ gaze softens, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You up for being pack second, Tony?”

Tony stares at him, probably looking as poleaxed as he feels and not even caring. Did Gibbs just…?

Gibbs simply waits him out. Certain parts of Tony’s anatomy are starting to react to their closeness, but he forces incipient arousal aside to focus on Gibbs’ words. An offer of pack second goes way beyond a statement of intent, it’s a _claiming_ – as good as a proposal of marriage to a shifter, particularly when their pack is small enough to not actually need a second.

There’s no clearer way in which Gibbs could’ve stated that what they’re about to embark on is not just about the way Tony would quite like to go to his knees for him.

“For keeps?” Tony croaks, disjointed enough that anyone other than Gibbs might’ve been confused, but Gibbs only nods.

“Never intended anything else.”

Maybe Tony should’ve expected it. Gibbs is the least casual guy on the planet. His picture is probably next to the definition of ‘commitment’ in the dictionary. Tony just hadn’t quite extended that thought to himself, to any relationship he dreamed of being able to wring out of Gibbs.

Except Gibbs doesn’t need to be wrung, is several steps ahead of Tony. As always.

Tony relaxes into Gibbs’ hold, letting the smile that’s been tugging in the hollow of his chest ever since Gibbs kissed him bloom on his lips. “Bring it on, Gibbs.”

And Gibbs smiles, too, wider than Tony has ever seen. This time, when he leans in for a kiss, Tony returns it with abandon.

It may not have been the most romantic proposal in the history of work colleagues figuring out that they’re in love with each other (and Tony knows for a fact that Gibbs get an angry email from maintenance about stopping the elevator for a good fifteen minutes the next day), but Tony doesn’t care. He has everything he wants.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback adored.


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